Page 37 of In Frame
But, Leo thought. But I have his phone number. We talked about magpies. He said we’ll see what happens. We’re something. Not nothing. We’ll find out together.
And he held onto his phone, and found himself smiling.
* * * *
Sam, sitting in a too-small aisle seat and pretending not to notice the thumps of a child kicking his chair, flipped through photos. Found himself touching the phone’s screen with reverence, with pleasure. With whatever emotion kicked his heart into a somersault and his mouth into a smile, unplanned.
Leo Whyte. Laughing, shirtless, barefoot, lean movie-star muscle wrapped up in blue and gold brocade or satin sheets or low-rise jeans or nothing at all. Frying bacon, making tea, trusting Sam to find plates and open cupboards and trail fingers over naked skin.
The large man beside him in the airplane’s center seat shifted position. Rolled more Sam’s direction. Snored loudly.
Leo Whyte likely flew first class. Or on a private jet. In luxury. Sam tried to stretch out a leg and failed comprehensively.
Leo existed in that colorful townhouse, that world of midnight champagne brunches and sequins and silver-screen stories. Bringing characters to life, on a soundstage or in a glamorous international location. Making everyone laugh and cry and care.
That mattered—that mattered so much—and it was a gift, a talent, not one everyone had. Leo deserved the limousines and the red carpets and the suit that’d fit him like a glove at the premiere, sunrise pink standing out amid blues and blacksbecause Leo Whyte was never afraid to put on a show.
Leo had called the car and driver for him, that morning. Which had solved the immediate problem—and he really wouldn’t’ve made his flight without Royal’s frightening skill at squeezing into nonexistent traffic openings—but left a sharper sour note amid memories of sugar and toast and tea.
Leo had money. Undeniable. Not the way that, say, Colby Kent had money, but then again Colby Kent came from a background that included national poet laureates, distantly-related English aristocratic titles, and a history of senators and ambassadors and political advisors on the American side. Leo wasn’t Colby, but most people weren’t.
Leo also wasn’t Sam himself, and had almost certainly never pretended to not be hungry in order to give three younger siblings the last serving of macaroni and cheese. That’d been around the darkest couple months, when he hadn’t known what to do or how to rescue them all. He’d known it could’ve been worse—even then they’d had the house, and he’d always managed to feed Carlos and the twins and usually himself, even if that meant peanut-butter sandwiches for weeks, partly because of the money and partly because he’d been a college student with the kind of cooking skills that could about handle ramen noodles or bean burritos. He’d learned to do better, sort of.
He had money now, sort of. Irregular—whenever he had something juicy and got paid—and not exactly reliable, but in nicely large amounts, because he was good at angles and focus and getting a shot, and editors and publishers knew he was. He didn’t worry too much if the twins needed new pairs of shoes, and he could afford to rent a suit—a terrible one, okay, sure—for a movie premiere, and he could wander into his favorite bar and have a drink once in a while, the good whiskey, even. The one he’d shared with Leo, because he’d wanted to.
He was doing okay. Not amazing, but okay. He believed that.
He knew, though, that that life—his life, down on the ground with reality—was nowhere near Leo Whyte’s fantasy world. A whole other realm, up there. With private drivers and film-location travel and buying a unicycle just to learn to ride it. Full of personal stylists and movie scripts and designer fashion. Secure in the knowledge that just about anything could be had for the asking.
He tried to stretch his leg out again, failed again, swiped through pictures. Leo’s eyes stood out against the silver of the morning mist, hazel as elf-groves.
He hadn’t wanted Leo to have to call a driver. To spend money. Felt cheaper somehow. Like they’d slept together and Leo had needed to pay, after.
He also knew the objection was partly his insecurity talking. That one hadn’t even been a big favor. Trivial. Like buying another sparkly pillow or deciding on a marginally more expensive blend of tea. Leo could afford it easily, already paid drivers to do their job, and had made valid points about practicality.
His head hurt. The air was dry, or maybe his eyes were. He looked at Leo, caught out of time on his phone: the picture that’d been his favorite. Leo with hands wrapped around a teacup, gazing down into it; Leo with pale sunshine on a cheekbone, smile mischievous but small, maybe reminded of a past joke or on-set prank but only sharing the thought with his tea, paradoxically pensive and playful on his balcony in the morning.
The flight attendant’s voice said, “Oh, that’s a gorgeous picture!” and Sam jumped, nearly dropped his phone, fumbled, caught it. He managed, “Thanks.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you! You looked sohappy, just smiling at him. Is that your boyfriend?” She beamed at him, making small talk, chattering and perky. “And would you like something to drink?”
“He’s…” What? What word would be enough to sum up Leo Whyte? “A friend. Um. Coffee? Would be great. Thanks.”
She apologized again for startling him, blonde curls bouncing above her uniform, and got him coffee. The bulk in the center seat snored more. The woman at the window ignored everyone, headphones on, and buried herself in what looked like a mystery novel. The child behind him had stopped kicking his seat, so that was promising.
The coffee wasn’t great. He’d had worse. He sipped it gingerly.
He hoped Leo was smiling. Feeling wonderful. Not too sore. No regrets. Leo had said not—had talked about very rarely regretting anything, in fact—but they’d done so much, and Leo had never doneanyof it before, had never even kissed a man until Sam, and now—
God, hehopedLeo wouldn’t regret it.
He never would. No matter what happened next, he’d have the memory. He’d fold the love-letter of it up carefully and tuck it away and pull it out sometimes to gaze at, when he needed to smile. Because it had been a love-letter, on his side. For Leo. For that light, that delight.
He wanted to talk to Leo again. He wanted to hear how the afternoon press events went. He wanted to know what silly jokes Leo might’ve made in an interview, and what eyewatering color of shirt he’d chosen to wear on camera, and whether someone’d noticed that Leo’s toes and fingertips sometimes needed warming up, and if so what they’d done about thick socks and gloves or hot beverages to hold.
He missed Leo. He hadn’t ever known he could miss someone so powerfully. Not after a single night and morning.But his bones ached with the entire lack of English-heritage champagne-bubble enthusiasm beside him. His body knew how Leo felt, tasted, fit around him.
He’d land in a few hours. He’d see his family. He’d get to hug the twins and talk to Carlos and thank their neighbors for keeping an eye out. He’d sleep in his own bed for a couple of days before going to Atlanta to stalk a superhero film set and cast-and-crew hotel.
